


Light-Years Away

by firefright, Skalidra



Category: Batman - All Media Types, DCU
Genre: Alternate Universe - Science Fiction, Hostage Situations, IN SPACE!, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-21
Updated: 2018-07-21
Packaged: 2019-06-14 00:07:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,898
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15376386
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/firefright/pseuds/firefright, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Skalidra/pseuds/Skalidra
Summary: After being taken as a hostage in exchange for the survival of his home planet, Dick Grayson is left alone and friendless aboard theDeathstroke, lead dreadnought of the ruthless warlord Slade Wilson's fleet. Soon put to work as a member of the crew, he struggles to survive the casual disregard of the men around him, Slade's own intentions and — perhaps most damning of all — open hostility from the ship's second in command, Jason Todd. Who for some reason Dick can't even begin to fathom seems determined to make his life as difficult as possible.





	Light-Years Away

**Author's Note:**

> Hello all! We've been sitting on the first chapter of this story for a long time now, and figured we should finally get round to sharing it XD Science-fiction is definitely a favourite genre of ours, and we hope you'll all like it, too!

"Twenty percent."

Slade watches as his demand makes the King's — how pretentious; president or general or commander would be less horrendously old fashioned — jaw clench down, blue eyes like chips of hardened ice. Nothing he's frightened by, what would be the point in being concerned by a man that just doesn't have the forces to match him? If Wayne could get away with not dealing with him, he would have done it already. If he had that kind of power, maybe his planet would be safe from extortion.

"That's an outrageous number," Wayne says, voice as clipped as his expression.

"Is it?" Slade smiles over the table, and the last couple dishes still sitting there from their foreplay of a 'lunch.' "Maybe I like to start at outrageous and work my way down."

"One percent of all earnings."

Slade gives a breath of amusement, leaning back in his chair. "I see you like the same strategy. I'm looking for a reason not to occupy your planet, Wayne, not pocket change. You're going to have to give me something I want."

"Then why don't you tell me what that is?"

"Didn't I say? Twenty percent."

Wayne grinds out, "That would cripple the economy of my planet. I can't do that."

"Mm. Then I suppose you'll have to substitute some of it for something else, won't you?" He smiles in the face of the glare, letting his voice lower to mock, "Come now, _King_. I was told you were a genius. Surely you can figure something out."

There's a knock on the door before Wayne can come up with any retort to his jab, and it opens before either of them have called an invitation. The man that slips through is lean, dressed in form-fitting black clothing with accents of dark blue in strange, geometric shapes. It's not dissimilar to what Wayne is wearing, minus the family crest sewn in over his heart. Black hair to his ears, brilliant blue eyes, and a jaw with a nice enough line to it that Slade finds himself eyeing it appreciatively. Not bad at all.

"Sorry for the interruption," the boy says, sparing him a lingering glance but ultimately coming to stand next to Wayne's shoulder. "These need an immediate answer, or I would have saved them for later."

Wayne shuffles through the papers, frowning a bit. Slade returns his attention to their intruder, eyeing the line of his back and the swell of his behind as he waits. He's average height, maybe a bit taller than that, but certainly small compared to the two of them. Pretty eyelashes, a good mouth…

Well, he's been lacking a serving boy.

He doesn't bother waiting to say, "Him." Wayne's gaze lifts, and he flicks his fingers towards the boy in demonstration. "Sell him to me, and I'll lower it from twenty to ten."

Wayne puffs up like someone's shoved an inflating pump up his ass. "We don't allow slavery on this planet," is all but growled. "And he is my _son_."

“Not by blood,” Slade points out, studying the paling face of the boy. “Passing resemblance, but no shared genetic markers as far as I see."

"So what?"

He lifts his shoulders in an idle shrug. "A place archaic enough to still call its ruler 'king,' I'd think would still place importance on blood relations. He's not wearing your sigil, is he?" He looks to the boy, makes the flick of his gaze obvious enough as he lets it linger. "And I was personally thinking working hostage more than slave, but I can see the appeal of having a collar on him.”

Wayne looks murderous. Slade wouldn’t mind a fight, really, but he’s here on business. Best to bring the focus back.

“Those are my offers.” He tips back into the chair, tapping his fingers against the table and restating, “Ten percent with your son, or twenty without. Your call, Wayne.”

Slade doesn't pretend that he's anything but amused. Normally he might just negotiate down to something a bit more reasonable, resources instead of simple funds or something, but when something sweet walks in front of him, well… He's not particularly known for denying himself.

"Twenty percent cripples the economy," Wayne repeats, voice as tight as his spine. "I can't do that."

He leans forward, bracing his elbows on the table as he meets Wayne's gaze and lets his voice drop into lower, serious registers. "We both know that's the point. Either you give me a reason to expect you'll keep your word," he nods towards Wayne's son, standing stiff there at the edge of the table, "or I make sure you don't have the resources to do anything else. You're smart, Wayne; twenty percent leaves you enough to continue growth and manage existing expenses, but not enough to invest in any larger projects. Like expanding your fleet, for example. I do my research, Your _Majesty_. I take what a planet can afford."

If Wayne had a weapon, he's sure it would be aimed at his throat by now. As it is, the glare is as cold as ice and just as brutally unforgiving, despite its ineffectiveness. Slade's kind of amused by it; that look has probably cowed many a person into obedience and he's always entertained by leaders that think they can scare him into giving them anything he doesn't want to. Wayne's 'son' might not have been, but Wayne himself was certainly raised to be royalty. That look screams of privilege and power, and a hatred of it being swept out from under him. Poor king.

"I'll do it."

Slade's a little surprised to hear the boy speak, and he turns his head to look up. The boy's still pale, still clearly unnerved, but he's standing tall, chin lifted. So there's some royal upbringing in him after all. Good, he's always preferred his boys to have some spine to them, and there's not much stronger than the steel of a well-raised royal's will. Arrogant (usually figurative) bastards, most of them, but take them down a peg or two and they tend to learn quickly.

"Dick—”

"No," the kid snaps, cutting Wayne off before he can finish whatever that censuring sentence was. A breath inflates his chest, before he meets Slade's gaze surprisingly evenly. "Ten percent if I go with you as a hostage?"

"That's right," Slade drawls, curious despite himself. Not many people have the guts to sacrifice themselves.

The boy — Dick, Wayne had called him; short for Richard, perhaps? — nods and breathes in. "Done. I'll go."

Wayne shoves back from the table, chair screeching just a bit as he stands over his son. "Absolutely not. You are _not_ being sold.”

Slade’s rather impressed with how the boy faces his ‘father,’ expression setting into stubborn determination. “I’m being taken prisoner, not sold. Are you really going to make me stay here and watch everyone struggle, knowing I could have done something about it?” Wayne doesn’t immediately answer — he’s giving already, Slade can see it — so his son adds, “Let me do this. I can handle it.”

Brave of the boy, considering he has no idea what he’s walking into.

Wayne is stiff and tense for a moment longer before turning to him and demanding, “How are your hostages treated?”

Slade leans back in his chair again to make the answer more careless, as well as give him a better angle to look up at Wayne with. “Generally speaking they’re scattered among my fleet, to the captains I most trust. They work servant jobs if they can be trusted to behave.” He flicks his gaze briefly to the boy. “Violence is met with violence, but otherwise their fate is left up to the obedience of their planet. I’m ruthless, Wayne, not a sadist.”

He has no intention of allowing this specific boy to be anywhere but his own ship, but they don’t need to know that. Be a shame to let anyone but himself enjoy the sight; not often that a politically important hostage also happens to be pleasing to the eye.

“Are they allowed contact with their home?”

Slade dips his head in a shallow nod. “Intermittent, monitored calls, roughly every standard month. Assuming good behavior and that connection is possible from wherever the fleet is at the time.”

The boy is looking at Wayne, who looks as if he would rather be facing down an army than this decision. Though granted, that is his choice. It takes a couple long moments of silence, but he finally grits out, “Fine. Deal. Ten percent and… and my son.”

“Agreed.” He’s not cruel or foolish enough to force Wayne to shake his hand, so he only raises it to tap the panel on the underside of his left wrist and enable communication. “Lieutenant.”

He enables the outside speaker in time for all of them to hear the answering, _“I’m here, Commander.”_

“Send down an agreement; ten percent and a guest. We’ll be leaving shortly.”

_“Understood.”_

He disables the open line, raising his gaze back to Wayne. "It should be being transmitted down the same line we had original contact on; I assume your aides will bring it to us to be signed, by both parties."

Wayne straightens up; he decides to ignore the distinct distaste in the look aimed down at him. "I'll have to have it read through."

Not an unusual demand; smart leaders never like to sign something they haven't had professionally examined, not that Slade's ever tried to trick anyone into agreeing to things through a contract. It's really an underhanded tactic, and it tends to inspire rebellion. What's the point?

"Of course." Slade looks to the boy, standing there with his jaw clenched and shoulders defensively high. The blue eyes — bright and vivid, unlike Wayne's more ice-like color — meet his with a fairly steady defiance. Not bad. "You've got three hours to be ready," he grants. "You can bring three things with you as well; don't count what you're wearing. Understood?"

"Yes." The answer is lacking any sort of a title, but Slade lets that pass. The boy can be as disrespectful as he likes, until he's on Slade's ship.

The two of them exchange shallow nods, and the boy heads for the door. The pile of papers he brought in is left behind. It's clearly done reluctantly, but Wayne takes his seat again as the door shuts, pulling it up to sit straight and regal and all but glare across the table. In a very cold, royal way.

"And if it takes longer than three hours?"

"Then you'll be stalling." Slade stretches his legs out beneath the table for a moment, before he shifts to sit up a bit straighter as well. "It's not long-winded, and I'm not one for wordplay or tricks, Wayne. Look over it if you want, but in three hours your boy gets on my ship whether we're finished here or not. The signing is just a formality; for the records."

Wayne frowns but doesn't argue, and after a moment of silence he turns to his papers. It's not a full cold shoulder, but Slade's not inclined to break the silence anyway. Let Wayne do his work and maybe even enjoy his petty victories; he doesn't need to mock to know that he's won.

* * *

 The goodbyes are hard, but Dick doesn't have the time to really feel any of the emotions he's sure will come crashing down on him later. Three hours to sort out his whole life, say a quick goodbye to everyone who needs it — some in person, others by rushed video chat — and pick out just three things to bring with him to his apparent new home. Wherever that is.

Or he should say, _what_ ever it is, because he knows enough about the fleet of Commander Slade Wilson to know that the fleet itself is their home. There are worlds they occupy — the ones that refused to pay them their glorified protection fee — but their main force is in the fleet. The planets are more vacation and retirement spots from what he understands, with the rulers replaced but most everything left in place. Grudgingly, he can recognize that it’s a pretty efficient system, even if he thinks it’s a tyrannical one.

Dick takes every second he has available to him before making his way to the shuttle sitting at one of their private landing sites. The three things he’s allowed feel heavier under his arm than they have a right to be, considering it’s nothing more than two small, framed pictures and the ring Bruce gave him when he was adopted. It’s platinum, made to last, with the Wayne crest etched into the top of it and his full name on the inside. A declaration of intent.

The pictures are simple holographic ones, displayed by the frames on the flick of a switch. One of his original family, his parents standing with him held between them, still in show gear. The other of the Waynes, in one of the rare times that they were actually all gathered in the palace. He remembers it was hell to get that picture, with so many of them to corral into making the right expressions at the right time. They did eventually get a regal one, for the news. But the one he’s kept in his room is an outtake, half of them smiling from whatever joke had just been said and the other half in various forms of exasperation. Bruce is smiling.

Commander Wilson is waiting by the shuttle doors, and perspective messes with Dick’s head for a second before he realizes that no, the shuttle isn’t abnormally small, it’s that the Commander is _huge_. Several inches taller than even Bruce, he’s sure, and with broad shoulders and a clearly beyond fit physique. He… didn’t realize that before, seeing him sitting in that chair.

Bruce is standing very clearly apart, stiff and straight in ways it took Dick a long time to figure out. He didn't come naturally to any of this, but he's learned, and he's going to make Bruce proud. Commander Wilson is dangerous, but he can handle it. He _will_ handle it. There's not going to be any reason for his family or his world to be ashamed of him.

Wilson doesn't wait. He gives a small smirk, just a little curl of one corner of his mouth, and opens the shuttle's doors to duck inside. It gives Dick a moment in private to detour over to Bruce; the only person he's yet to say goodbye to.

"I'll be alright," is what comes out of his mouth, before anything else. "You don't have to worry about me, Bruce. I can do this."

He's not sure he's ever seen Bruce's jaw tighter than it is right now, but somehow it still parts to let him speak. "Be careful; he's not to be underestimated."

"I won't."

"Dick…” Bruce looks to the shuttle, then very deliberately shifts focus back to him. "If he mistreats you, say the word and I'll get you out. Understand?"

Dick feels the tight ball in his gut ease a little, just enough to make his smile feel less forced. He nods, and then throws decorum out the window for a moment so he can step forward and wrap his arms around Bruce's back in a tight hug. Screw protocol just this once; it’s not like anyone else is here to watch.

Bruce exhales slowly, but then returns the hug with enough strength it almost hurts. He buries his face against Bruce’s shoulder, taking in one long, deep breath just to get the scent of that familiar cologne in his nose. He’d hold on longer if he could, but he makes himself pull away. If he stays much longer he’s never going to be able to force himself to leave, and he’s not going to be the cause of a war starting. He promised he would do this.

He takes a breath, straightens up, and looks Bruce in the eye to say, “Thank you for everything.”

“My pleasure,” Bruce returns, with an inclination of his head.

Dick bites down on the ‘goodbye’ at the tip of his tongue. This isn’t a goodbye; they’ll see each other again, and they’ll talk regularly. This isn’t final.

He turns to the shuttle, pushing aside all foreboding and nervousness to keep himself straight and noble as he ducks inside the entrance. It’s a short-range passenger shuttle, clearly enough. Two rows of three seats pressed to either side of it, room in the back end with straps for luggage, and two seats for the pilots. Commander Wilson is in one.

The entrance slides shut behind him, sealing with a quiet hiss of air. Dick doesn’t even have time to decide which of the two rows of seats he’s heading for before Wilson lifts a hand in a beckoning gesture and orders, “Come up here.”

Well, there’s no ignoring that.

Dick braces himself and heads for the front, taking the other seat and latching the harness to keep himself secure just in case. The artificial gravity should take care of most of any turbulence, but it gives him an excuse to not look Wilson in the eye for a couple more seconds.

When he does look up, Wilson’s not even looking at him. He’s starting the shuttle with a clearly practiced hand, flipping switches and tapping in commands till the engine hums to life beneath them. The sound is quieter than any other shuttle he’s been in, even as Wilson lifts it off the ground and aims it up towards the sky. He can feel the slight vibration, but he thinks he could easily forget that the sound of the engine was even there.

Out of the corner of his eye, Dick watches as Commander Wilson engages what looks like an autopilot function, keeping one idle hand on the controls but letting the other fall away as they pull up through the atmosphere. Then he turns, single blue eye coming to regard Dick with a keen sort of amusement. It's only half a gaze, but Dick feels like it sees through him all the same, straight past his stiff back and forced impassiveness to the nervous worry underneath.

Wilson's smile isn't kind, but it's not the sharp smirk he saw before. "Most prisoners don't come to me as volunteers," he comments, voice low and drawling in a way that seems more natural accent than intentional mocking.

He doesn't swallow, even though he feels the urge. "Do you take many hostages?" he asks instead, forcing his voice to come out even.

"Some." The smile edges towards something sharper. "When I see one important enough to keep a planet in line."

Except… Wilson didn't have that information before he made the offer. "You didn't know who I was until you were told," Dick points out, narrowing his eyes a little as he tries to understand that inconsistency.

"No, but I knew you were important. Entering without invitation, addressing your king without any title or subservience, even in body language… You could have been a lover, a treasured adviser, or any number of things, but you were valuable to him." Dick hesitates, and Wilson gives a quiet laugh. "Though if you want honesty, I took you because of your looks."

Dick knows his slight flinch doesn't get past Wilson's attention. He'd considered it, briefly. He didn't have the time or the attention to really dwell on it, but the thought that Commander Wilson might have more… carnal intentions towards him than he'd let on had more than crossed his mind. His interest had been obvious enough, in looks and comments both, and it's not the first time that Dick's had unwanted attention. It's just never come from the Commander of a fleet of warships big enough to destroy his world if he refuses. Wilson said he wasn't a sadist, but even if that's the truth it's not much of a reassurance.

Dick takes a breath to steady himself, and tilts his chin up as he looks Wilson in the eye. "If you're planning on forcing me, I won't make it easy."

Wilson looks almost pleased, and after a few moments of silence there comes a small shake of his head. "You're attractive, Richard, but I have plenty of willing options without needing to resort to you." Dick twitches a bit at the use of his name, and Wilson gives a low chuckle and glances briefly at the console beneath his fingertips. "I can look without touching. If you choose to sleep with me, that will be your choice."

"I won't," he rushes to insist, before he considers if it might be wise to insult the man he's about to step onto the ship of.

The Commander only smiles though, with a knowing, perceptive edge that makes Dick want to squirm. "Very well."

The rest of the flight passes in mostly silence, at least until they escape orbit. Dick has read in their reports from satellites and various scout drones the size and number of ships currently circling their planet, but seeing them with his own two eyes is another matter entirely. Wilson’s own warship, the one they’re heading directly towards, is huge. Dreadnought class, if not bigger.

He swallows hard, reminding himself that this is the reason he agreed to the deal. Bruce’s own fleet has no chance of standing against that; it would be a massacre if they tried to fight.

Docking takes but a minute, the great doors of the dreadnought sliding open before them like the maw of a monster. The inside is further protected by an orange-tinted shield, and Dick winces as they approach it but there’s only a faint fizzle of energy as they pass through. Ships have never been something he was particularly well versed in, but he’s pretty sure docking shields like these tend to be coded to inner passcodes on the vessels themselves. Anything else — rubble, enemy ships, or missiles — tends to explode against the outside.

There’s a small drop in the shuttle as it passes the shield, and Wilson’s hands move with practiced precision over the controls to stabilize it against the change in gravity, guiding it down and into an empty spot on the multi-tiered levels of docking space. It settles with barely even a bump. The shuttle powers down around them, and Dick’s so caught looking out through the window of the shuttle, at all the movement and all the other ships and _things_ out there, that it startles him when there’s the zip-click of Wilson releasing his harness. He quickly moves to do the same, more on automatic than any desire to leave the ship.

Commander Wilson’s too tall to stand straight in the shuttle, Dick finds out when he gets up, which shouldn’t surprise him but somehow still does. “Come on, boy.”

Dick takes a breath and forces himself up, clutching his pictures and ring close to his side. Wilson’s at the door, opening it with a press of his hand at the command panel beside it. There’s a slight rush of air as it transfers between the two environments, but it’s barely enough to stir Commander Wilson’s hair. Dick pushes himself to follow, getting to the door just as it finishes opening and Wilson ducks out with smooth grace. Dick stares at the threshold for just a moment before he does the same. There’s no point in his hesitation; he’s already on Wilson’s ship, one step isn’t going to suddenly make it any more of a fact.

Dick’s gaze is drawn up when he steps outside, to the great doors sliding shut above them and… and the planet, _his_ planet, visible between them. He’s been off-planet before, been on ships before, but the sight still manages to make him feel suddenly, viciously small.

He wonders how long it will before he’ll get to see it again. To walk on its surface. Feel the air and taste the water. How long until he’ll know freedom again, if ever. Longer than he’d like, for sure.

“Commander!” A voice interrupts his musings. “I see you finally made it back aboard.”

Dick pulls his gaze away from the doors, following the sound to its source. A young man, tall and dark haired, strides towards them, wearing the uniform of one of Wilson’s men.

“The negotiations were long, but yes, they’re over now.” Wilson smiles at him, before turning back to Dick. He manages not to shy away from the hand that suddenly grips his shoulder. Or the way the young man’s eyes suddenly narrow in his direction. “Lieutenant, I’d like you to meet Richard Grayson-Wayne, our newest guest aboard the _Deathstroke_. Richard, this is Lieutenant Jason Todd, my second in command.”

Normally this would be Dick’s cue to jump in with his nickname, but on this occasion all he can manage is a stiff nod, not trusting his mouth to speak. Commander Wilson’s attitude is a little like someone showing off their new prize pet.

Jason looks just as thrilled to meet him. “Hostage?” he asks Wilson, without any word of greeting.

“Obviously,” the commander answers, unperturbed. “I want you to show him to a room, help him get settled in.”

“Of course, sir,” Todd intones like there’s literally anywhere else he’d rather be, “And what will you be doing?”

“Celebrating, of course. Come find me when you’re done, why don’t you?”

At that at least, Todd finally seems to express some interest. “It would be my pleasure, Commander.” he says, then looks sharply at Dick, “Come on, you.”

There’s no real choice but to obey. Wilson lets him go and Dick follows Todd out of the docking bay and into the deeper bowels of the ship. His last glance of the commander has him standing with a smirk on his face, arms crossed across his muscled chest, then the door Todd’s taken him through shuts and it’s just the two of them.

“Not very talkative, are you?” Todd says, surprising Dick by breaking the silence after a couple minutes of walking.

“What am I supposed to say?” he replies, fixing his eyes on the back of Todd’s head. He has strong shoulders, not nearly as broad as Commander Wilson’s, but enough to make him look formidable nonetheless. Dick can’t imagine he’d have gotten to the position he has if he weren’t capable of enforcing it.

“The others in your position are usually begging or pleading by this point. Asking me to help them, wanting reassurance they won’t come to any harm. Shit like that.”

Dick presses his lips together, fingers curling into fists at his sides. “I know what I agreed to. I don’t need further clarification.”

“Well, aren’t you the stoic little badass.”

They take a lift up a few levels. To what Dick guesses is one of the habitation levels on the ship, though probably not the same one most of Wilson’s crew use. Todd stops by one of the many near identical doors and presses his palm to the access panel, which immediately lights up green.

“In here.” he gestures.

Dick takes a cautious step through. His new home is an altogether drab little room. A basic box with a bunk, wardrobe, sink, and what he guesses is a small bathroom off to the side through another door. If he wanted to, he could probably lie down on the floor with his head touching one wall and his toes another — a very far cry from what he’s used to.

“This is it?” he asks.

“You’re a prisoner now,” Todd retorts, “Not some spoiled little princeling. Get used to it.” He leans against the doorframe. “Someone will be down shortly to bring you a few changes of clothing, as well as some food. You’ll remain in here until we find some task for you.”

“And when will that be?” Dick says, bristling. There’s not even a vid screen in here that he can see.

“Eager to start work, are you?”

More like he knows he’ll go crazy in here without a distraction. “I like to keep busy.”

Todd snorts with amusement. “You’ll have plenty of work to do soon enough. Take the time to sit down while you have it.” He straightens up, “I shouldn’t have to say this, but based on experience I will anyway. Don’t try anything stupid while you’re here. Remember, you’re not the only one who’ll suffer for your mistakes.”

Dick grits his teeth, biting down on a cutting response. “I know that.”

“Good. I’ll leave you to it, then.” Todd’s eyes pass once more over the interior of the room. “Have fun settling in.”

The door slides shut as he steps backwards out of the room, and a red light appears on the access panel at the side of it, signifying that it’s now locked. Dick halfheartedly tries pressing his palm against the scanner anyway, not the least bit surprised when nothing happens.

He moves to the bed, setting the precious photographs he brought down on the mattress before sitting down beside them, then moves the fingers of his left hand to the ring on his right, twisting it round. More than anything, he has to remember who he’s doing this for. It’s the only way he’s going to survive what’s ahead.

**Author's Note:**

> [Skalidra's tumblr](https://skalidra.tumblr.com/)
> 
> [Fire's tumblr](https://firefrightfic.tumblr.com/)


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